


Inviting

by keelywolfe



Category: British Actor RPF, Sherlock (TV) RPF
Genre: Drunk Sex, M/M, Oral Sex, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-07
Updated: 2016-01-07
Packaged: 2018-05-12 11:53:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5665162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keelywolfe/pseuds/keelywolfe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just a drink after a long time filming, really. How is Martin supposed to turn down that invitation?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Inviting

**Author's Note:**

> Pure smut, folks, trying to work my will back into writing and this is what I have. Enjoy!

* * *

He almost said no, Martin did, when Benedict invited him back to his room for a fuck-it-yes-we’re-done-with-it drink.

Truth be told, Martin was more than a bit glad of shooting being finished. Much as he enjoyed the work, the difference in roles, the challenge of it all, he had a great deal on his plate right now and finishing up with Sherlock at least temporarily was one more tick in his box of things done. 

Not that Benedict was any less busy and perhaps it was that knowledge that had persuaded Martin into staying one more night for a drink or three. It wasn’t as if Martin never saw Benedict, but again, busy blokes right now, the both of them, and with filming done for the time being, chance was they wouldn’t hear from each other outside a few texts until it began again. 

Still, he might have begged off if it weren’t for the eager hope in Benny’s eyes when he’d made the offer; that and the promise of a fine bottle of Famous Grouse whiskey back in his room. Martin supposed he could spare one night for a drink or three with a friend, particularly a good friend and a good whiskey. 

A drink, was all, just a drink with a friend, a few drinks, and he’d lost count somewhere between the last swallow and the first press of Benny’s mouth against his own. Martin had only meant to pour another glass, his feet steady enough when he’d walked over to the side table but the bottle wobbling as he’d slopped a finger’s worth in. Benny had laughed, settled his own hand over Martin’s to steady it, and somewhere between looking up into his laughing eyes and setting down the bottle, Martin had wandered off the designated path. 

Benedict’s eyes were blue and his mouth was as soft as it looked, Martin decided hazily. Soft, parted in shock or compliance, Martin couldn’t be sure, but it made it easy enough to lick the taste of whiskey out of his mouth, suck on the end of his tongue, bite at the tip. Just hard enough to make him wince, hard enough for Benedict to bite back, drag their mouths together and steal a hard kiss. 

"Ow, bastard," Martin hissed reprovingly, wincing as Benny nipped at his lower lip again, a mincing, startling little pain. He squirmed against Benedict's sudden grip, tight around his waist and one hand on the back of his head, holding him still as Benny mouthed a line down his jaw, biting kisses along his chin. 

Damn the man and his big hands, and Benny only laughed softly as Martin tried, and failed, to wriggle free. 

"Problem?" A whisper of breath against his ear made Martin shiver even as it was followed by the soft, wet touch of a tongue, tracing along the whorls. 

"Yeah, you're squeezing the air out of me, you cunt," Martin wheezed and was treated with a sharp bite for the profanity. "Come off it, every other word out of you is fuck."

"That's because I like to extend the invitation," Benedict whispered smoothly and Christ, that voice, he'd missed that voice. As smoky and gorgeous as the whiskey, smooth going down into his ear as the warm liquor had been sliding down his throat and Martin had to swallow as his mouth watered just thinking about it. 

"Are you?" Martin had to ask, had to, because a kiss was a kiss and a fuck was…well, something else entirely and Benedict hadn't let him go, not an inch of space between them. One of his knees had snuck between Martin's legs, fuck knew when, and was slyly nudging up against his crotch. Possibly worrisome how fuck-all hot that was, consider that knee-and-balls weren't usually a combination he enjoyed. 

He felt Benny smile against his neck where he was nuzzling those biting little kisses into Martin's skin. There'd be a line of bruises there tomorrow and no one would need directions to follow the trail that Benedict's mouth had taken. It would be laid out on Martin's skin like a treasure map, follow the dotted line, twenty paces to the east, and he couldn't help but wonder just what treasure was buried under the 'x'. 

"You don't need an invitation," Benny murmured and Martin let his head drop back, not even wincing when it thumped loudly against the wall and fuck again, when had they had a wall? When had they even moved, when had Benny slid his hands around and started working on the buttons of Martin's shirt, long fingers slipping in through the gaps to stroke between each one. 

That whiskey-sweet voice had a hell of a kick to it, didn't it, making Martin lose time and space faster than a double shot. His mouth was worse, better, _worse_ , soft lips following his fingers, breathing against Martin's chest, his belly, again with the biting, as though Benny was determined to leave his marks everywhere. Staking a claim wherever Martin let him. 

Like he was inclined to stop him? Fucking hell, Martin was leaning against the wall, his nails digging at the ugly paper covering it, trying to cling, hang on to some bit of sanity when Benedict dropped to his knees, pressed his face against Martin’s denim-covered cock and just breathed. 

He could feel it, fuck, fuck, hot blurts of breath seeping in through fabric, Benny mouthing him through it, the pressure of teeth scraping at him, Benedict was on his knees , somehow right there and all but sucking his cock through his jeans and suddenly Martin wanted that so terribly much. He wanted that lush, perfect mouth on him, wanted to watch those lips part while he pressed between them. Wanted to watch his cock vanish into Benedict, his mouth stretched wide around him, cheeks hollowing as he sucked. Wanted it so. Fucking. Much.

Martin couldn't even ask, stammering on words that slithered away and refused to be spoken. He could taste the sweat beading on his upper lip, licked it away and didn't, couldn't, talk when Benny finally, Christ, _finally_ , worked open the fly of his jeans.   
Tugged on them until they fell, catching mid-thigh against Martin's spread legs. He practically felt Ben's eyebrows raise, yes, yes, no pants, all right, and then Martin couldn't give a toss about eyebrows. Not with Benedict slicking his tongue against the head of his prick, a thoughtful, gauging little lick as though testing the flavour. 

"Now who's waiting for an invite?" Martin groaned and it cut off on a gasp as Benedict fucking _bit_ him, not shy on the teeth, either, and he strangled out a yelp of protest. Useless, that, protests were not for him, not when Benedict finally obeyed the fantasy Martin had so thoughtfully conjured for them, opened that gorgeous fucking mouth and sucked Martin in. Jesus.

"Jesus," Martin shuddered, heard the rough drag of his nails against drywall as he resisted the urge to grab Benny's head and push in, ride the edge of his throat and feel him choke, just a bit. 

Not that he was even sure Benny would. The fantasy was nothing, fucking shit in comparison to reality, God, he should have known Benedict would suck cock with all the raw enthusiasm he held for everything, acting, skydiving, jumping off cunting buildings, sucking cock, all of it, Benny did it with style. His tongue was moving in a slippery, perfect counterpoint, probably writing a god-damned symphony, and yeah, his cheeks did hollow when he sucked, and it just brought out those cheekbones. 

Honestly, if Martin hadn't been standing here on trembling legs, getting the best blowjob of his life, he might just have hated Benny a little. 

Martin let his head drop back, he couldn't watch anymore, couldn't, the heat in his bollocks was already drawing tight, and he clung to the brink with the same determination he was clinging to the wall, desperate to draw it out, to feel that slick-sweet pull of Benny's mouth once more. Again. Again. Again, please, fucking hell, again, again, drawing off to swirl his tongue at the head, he didn't even drool, the bastard, sucking Martin's cock back in as smoothly as tossing back a glass of whiskey. 

Style, Christ, yes, Benny had loads of it. 

It was only when he heard it, the rhythmic, wet sound of someone tossing off, of Benny tossing off, Benny jerking himself with the same slippery he was using on Martin's prick, it was only then Martin lost it. Didn't even have a chance to look, just the sound of it, the mental picture of Benny's hand down the front of his pants, those posh, tailored trousers splayed open, spread out like a whore's legs. Posh, perfect Benedict, on his knees, tossing off while Martin fucked into his mouth and that was all Martin could take, almost whimpering as he came, pulsing into Benedict's mouth, spilling over the lapping eagerness of his tongue and the feel of that would have made him come again, had he been able. 

The wall refused to hold him up, contrary thing that it was, and Martin skidded down it bonelessly, nails dragging as he sagged to the floor. Benny let his cock slide free with a soft pop that might have made Martin laugh if he had any memory of how to breathe. As it was, he just laid there, legs sprawled apart as he tried to gather enough energy to rub a brain cell or three together. 

Distantly, he felt Benny moving, registered weight on his thighs and slowly he came to realize Benny was straddling him. Only, not just straddling, he was also still jerking off, the hard, wet-sounding rhythm of it edging into frantic. Honestly, of all the prats, he couldn’t have gone off when Martin did? 

It took all his feeble energy to raise a hand, aiming it in the direction of those sounds, only to have Benny bat it away, and Martin thought he might be insulted, if he hadn't wasted all his energy moving his hand. Just as he was thinking of possibly offering a scathing insult, little cunt couldn't even let Martin get a good grope, Benedict groaned aloud, a deep, rumbling sound of pure pleasure. 

Well, all right then, go the hell for it, Benny. 

Slick wetness striped Martin's chest through his open shirt, falling hot on his skin and, Jesus, up to his chin, one damp streak catching his cheek and then dripping down in a cooling trail. Martin managed to open an eye as Benedict dropped his head forward, pressing their foreheads together as he dragged in harsh, desperate gulps of air. 

Martin pursed his lips, stared at the blurry, too-close Benny as he deliberately reached up and wiped away the line of wetness on his cheek. Rubbed it between his thumb and forefinger, testing the consistency, before he carefully pressed his thumb against Benny's panting mouth, painting those faintly swollen lips with his own come. He almost flinched when Benny instantly licked it away, catching his thumb lightly with his teeth and sucking it clean. 

"You missed a spot," Martin said wryly, gesturing at his chest where the streaks were drying tacky on him. 

Muffled laughter around his thumb, Benny let it slide free before he said, "You'll have to handle that yourself, I already swallowed once tonight."

Whatever retort he had planned died away as Benny drew a finger through the streaks, spreading the wetness, rubbing it lightly into Martin's skin. Christ, he was going to have to have a shower but watching Benny's wet fingers over his chest, skimming his nipples with slippery little flicks that drew a weak sigh from him. 

"Fucking hell, yes," Martin mumbled, refused to call the sound he made when Ben pinched his nipple a squeak. "Yeah. Yes."

"Yes?" Benny's mouth was coaxing against his own, his lips tasted softly bitter, faintly swollen. His tongue was cool in comparison, drinking in Martin's sighs. 

"Yes," Martin agreed, "Yes." Yes, kiss me, yes, yes, fuck me, suck me, yes. Whatever, yes, and Benedict's kisses were like a soft punctuation. Yes, yes, have me, take me. 

Yes. No invitation required. 

-finis-


End file.
